


Not That Kind of Legend

by Apfelessig



Category: Turn (TV 2014), Turn: Washington's Spies
Genre: Crack Fic, Map Reading, Time Travel, topography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23903692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfelessig/pseuds/Apfelessig
Summary: It's fall now and it wasn't, just a moment ago. Most of the leaves are on the ground or whispering on the breeze. It takes a lot of blinking before you decide that either you've lost six months of recent memory, or something very metaphysical and very unlikely is going on here.---Caleb Brewster, who has suffered many a scouting mission over treacherous terrain, encounters you and modern maps with proper topographical features.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Not That Kind of Legend

If the weather hadn't changed, you wouldn't have even noticed going 250 years back in time. You're dressed for a 40% chance of showers and were just starting to feel it pinging on your rain shell when the sunlight blinds you like a lightning bolt. You throw up your hands thinking "Bomb?" and then "Camera?" and then "Flare gun?" before you realize it hasn't made a sound.

It's fall now and it wasn't, just a moment ago. Most of the leaves are on the ground or whispering on the breeze. It takes a lot of blinking before you decide that either you've lost six months of recent memory, or something very metaphysical and very unlikely is going on here.

And it's _cold_.

"Who are ye?"

You turn and—okay, so you're high or dreaming. Because that is definitely not Daniel Henshall in his Turn costume staring at you from under his hat with a look like a slapped mackerel. You happen to know he took home the coat after filming ended, and the tomahawk. You had no idea he lived near here. Or spent time on these trails. He's kept the beard, you note. Good choice, really.

Fair's fair, he's looking at you too, in your too-red rain coat, your braided hair, brightly patterned head buff, and neon-trimmed backpack.

 _Funny thing_ , your brain points out after some backstage work, _the air smells different_.

It does. It smells like gunpowder.

For a second both of you do nothing, then one of you plays it safe, and raises his pistol.

"No, no no, don't shoot!" you yell, raising your phone and your map above your head.

He doesn't look like he's about to, but he doesn't look any less bewildered either.

"You're a _woman?_ "

"Oh my god," you whisper.

"You're... what're you..."

"It's called neon," you say, because the rules no longer apply and if you keep talking it'll all work out. "It's a very bright colour. It's synthetic. That means it's not real. Um. Are you—are you Caleb Brewster?"

The pistol jabs forward and you step back. "Who's asking?"

"No one! Just—" Just a time traveller. Yeah, go on. Say that. "I'm lost!"

"State your loyalty."

"Um! Um! Pa-patriot! Rebel! I'm not from here!"

That he does believe, and the longer he looks at your attire, the more the sense of wrongness settles in. Your foreignness is your best asset here, so you play the card that has helped you in countless cities all over the world: the slightly stupid tourist.

"I was, um, I was just on this...path..." You look around, pointing at a thin footpath that won't be part of a provincial trail system for 200 years. "And I... was, um, trying to get to here..."

You hold out the map, hoping that the universal Do-I-look-competent-enough-to-be-a-threat-to-you body language applies in all of time, not just space. It's brightly printed, and maybe that's what catches his eye. You're too colourful. And Caleb Brewster has a magpie's interest.

He edges closer to catch a better look without compromising his own safety by lowering his weapon. He's determined to keep acknowledging the bizarreness of your sudden appearance, just as you're determined to move along the encounter to an even weirder, but hopefully more disarming discourse.

You also pocket your phone. That's not a conversation you want to have.

"See, I started out at the trailhead..."

You point at the map, putting on your best act of unaffected concern. _Silly me, really, should have looked at it online before heading out... Forget my own head next!_

Curiousity wins and the pistol drops. Not that it really matters. He could knock you down with a blow. You're not exactly winning awards in cranial impact resistance. You hold the map a little away from you so he can see it from a safe personal distance.

"See, 'cause this is where I park—left my car—cart. And then I was walking—"

"What is this?"

"It's a map."

He tosses you a look and you grin widely because you recognize it.

"Whaddye take me for?"

"No, no, it is, see? Those are paths. We're... here."

He steps closer and you get a chance to properly appreciate his outfit. It's a good leather coat. Well worn, but taken care of. You try to sniff it, unobtrusively, as Caleb leans over the map.

"There's too much on it."

You shrug. "Well, there's a lot here."

"What's all the green?"

You stare at him. "Trees."

"They don't put trees on maps." He's loosened up enough to scoff at you. Perhaps he's decided to radically accept your existence as some kind of fever dream.

"This map does. See? That's... the creek. The one back there, with the bridge."

"What, the logs?"

"Y-yes." The logs that become a bridge. "Those're the rapids. That's the ridge."

"Where?"

"Those lines."

"What lines? There's millions of lines."

" _These_ lines." You feel a pang of commiseration for Ben. He dealt with this every day. For a decade. "These brown—look, d'you see the thin, brown lines... like you see on wood planks?"

An engrossed nod.

"Yeah, so that's like... elevation. Like..." You cast about for an example and walk to the nearest oak. "So if I were to draw a line around the tree trunk..." Imperial, right. "...three feet above the ground. And then three feet above that, and so on. Then the lines would mark the elevation. So, imagine, right, you're walking up a hill and every three feet of... up... you mark a line..."

It takes some discussion but you get there in the end.

"So... so..." He looks behind him, holding the map. "That ridge," he jabs, "is that—so if they're close together you get a rapid ascent? A steep slope, like?"

He's a smart cookie, this one.

"Yeah."

He falls silent, eyes hungry, devouring the page.

"What's that?"

"Oh, yeah, this map marks different bird species you might find."

"Birds move."

"Well, yeah, but. You know. They nest."

"What's that?"

"Portage routes. So if you're carrying a canoe—"

"I know what a portage is, pixie woman."

Huh. So that's how he's rationalised it. "It tells you roughly how long it'll take to portage that distance. I think it's in kilometres and minutes."

"Kilom..."

"A slightly shorter mile."

He examines the route and frowns. "Thirty minutes for that? I do that in ten."

Show off.

" 'About half way up the golden staircase there is a bridge to the right—don't follow that trail,'" he reads the printed annotation. "Aye, 'cause Goodman Scoggins is a right bastard and a crack shot and holds grudges." He smacks the paper with his hand. "Who _made_ this?"

"Uh... Jeff."

"Patriot?"

"Sure."

"He's a damn good scout. Proper frontiersman. 'Low water levels can make the portage landings of Lost Shoe L. quite difficult to access'. Aye! And a damn shame, cause there's no better cover in that bay." He runs his fingers over the paper. "It's oiled?"

"Er. Lacquered. So that it doesn't tear. See?" You rough it up a little. "And it's water resistant. Won't get wet. Wouldn't drop it in a lake but it can hold off some rain."

His eyes meet yours and you could melt in that look of absolute, undisguised wonder. Here is a man who has seen three namedays and a Christmas arrive at once. Here is a man who has found his whale.

"A proper invention," he breathes.

"Pretty nifty," you agree.

"The level of detail..." His face falls into an earnest perusal.

You can't blame him. You've seen the maps they were working with at the time. At this time. They were maps made by surveyors and engineers and landowners. They were used for war, but when a clump of shrubs makes the difference between an ambush and a massacre, field experience is what counts. You listened to your scouts or you paid in blood.

The frown on Caleb's face has gone from professional to sincere. "'As of 2013 this campsite was in extremely poor condition.' Two thousand and thirteen what?"

"Oh, the year,' you say unthinking, then freeze. You hold your breath.

"Is this..." He turns it over in his hands, carefully. "Is this from antiquity?"

You need a good minute to parse that one. The poor baby has gone in the other direction on the timeline.

"No, that's, er, pixie years. We use a different calendar."

"Oh, do ye?"

"Yep. Royal Pixie decree. Last year. Unpopular political move, caused a lot of grief."

He makes sympathetic noises then shifts his weight. "This is something special."

"Yeah, it was expensive."

"Right."

When he pulls out his pistol and holds it inches from your head with a wicked grin, you just sigh. You really should have seen that coming.

"It's bad luck to rob a pixie," you say, but your heart's not really in it.

"I've put out enough bowls of milk in my life," Caleb says, "And my father's house was never cleaned. I'd say I'm owed this."

A modern topographical map in the hands of an unshaven, insane courier in the 1700s. You consider it for a moment. Ah, what the hell. It's a beautiful day out and they win anyway, don't they?

"Alright," you say. "Keep it. Just don't share it around—"

You jump as your pocket vibrates. It vibrates again, then launches into the first few bars of "Cara Mia", the ending song to Portal 2. Caleb's eyes look fit to burst from his head and you fumble out your phone with shaking fingers, lift one to ask for his patience at this trying time, and take three tries to unlock it.

"Yeah?"

"Dude, where are you?"

"I'm—"

A rain drop splats on your nose. You turn. It's spring. A green haze on every branch tells of new beginnings. Caleb's gone. You bury the words in your mouth: I'm about to get shot.

"I'm out for a walk."

"Well, hey, I finished up with the broker early, I was wondering if you still wanted to get together later? Babe?"

"Yeah?" You peer behind a tree.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just got robbed by Daniel Henshall." Nothing behind the log either. It's warmer, damper. But your nose is still cold and you still smell a whiff of gunpowder. You can still see the hole at the end of the barrel.

"You what?! Oh my god, are you okay? Where are you?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." You're opening your backpack, checking your pockets. No map. Bastard. "Listen, yeah, come over. We'll watch Netflix. I've got this show I want to show you."

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% a crack fic I wrote in an hour after laughing at comments people were making in my other, much more serious fic. <3 I love the idea of Caleb's long-suffering scouting missions being made a thousand times easier with GIS.
> 
> The map I'm using in this fic is a real map I have at home. [Jeff's Maps](https://jeffsmap.com/) are indeed water- and tear-resistant, include portage route distances and times, feature bird and wildlife nests, and include loads of very helpful annotations such as "Although it looks tempting, don't try paddling the creek to skip this portage. About 2/3 of the way through it becomes impossible." I can only _imagine_ what Caleb would do with this map. 
> 
> Hey, time travel being what it is, maybe that's why they won?


End file.
